


Option One

by WeCouldPretend



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Romans | Arthurian Romances - Chrétien de Troyes
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, For once in my life we're doing Galahad hurt/comfort, Galahad is just losing his shit, Galahad the Pure, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Just in case anyone was wondering, M/M, Making out in Guinevere's garden, Mordred's got a balisong, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slice of Life, Teasing, as always, barely even worth the teen rating., completely unbeta'd, secret garden, this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22602862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCouldPretend/pseuds/WeCouldPretend
Summary: Sir Galahad hates court life. He hates people throwing their daughters at him for marriage. Most importantly, he despises being called 'Galahad the Pure'. When court life gets to be too much, he does what anyone would do and goes to sulk in Guinevere's private garden.This garden is used for two things. 1: Clandestine meetings. 2: Private Meltdowns
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Option One

Castle Camelot during the summer was a busy and crowded place. With the harvest not yet ready and the livestock born for the year, the nobles of the country had time to come and participate in court functions. Of course, if the King and his knights were on campaign, that certainly put a damper on the festivities, but it by no means stopped them.

Unluckily for Sir Galahad, Lieutenant Commander of the King’s Cavalry, no campaign had appeared to aid his summer plans. At seventeen, Galahad’s charming smile and officer’s status in his godfather’s army made him a more than marketable prospective husband. Being Champion’s eldest son, well, aside from Prince Loholt, Galahad was seen as Camelot’s most eligible bachelor. Families thrust their often overeager daughters at him left and right, offering dowry after dowry. It was exhausting. And unwanted. A war campaign was almost preferred to the torment at court. 

His constant and vehement denials of every single woman thrust his way had earned him a nickname. Sir Galahad, the Pure. He hated it. Some said it with reverence, expecting him to have taken some sort of vow of chastity. Some spat it at him in contempt, as if he were trying to have the moral high ground with the moniker. As if.

As if he cared what they thought. It was beneath him to consider. But with the castle swarming with nobles and knights for the summer, it seemed unavoidable. The detested nickname followed him to court dinners and the training ring, out hunting and through the corridors. It was becoming unbearable. He’d almost bitten Cei’s head off earlier for using it jokingly. It had earned him reproachful glances from both his parents and Auntie Guin, who had since cornered him to remind him that he was a knight and not a child. She had gentled the criticism with a hug and a sweet roll, but it had still stung.

After three more mentions of it during a midday training session, he’d landed Agravaine with some nasty bruises and a sprained wrist. This of course was the physical evidence of Galahad returning the insult and tacking on an ego bruising and a sound thrashing for good measure. After he’d backhanded the insult back into Agravaine’s face, he’d stormed out of the training yard to find somewhere to sulk. Now, fury utterly spent, he found himself in the queen’s gardens.

The Queen’s private gardens were a secluded, walled off little courtyard only visible from her currently very empty and curtained solar. This made it an ideal spot for clandestine meetings and private meltdowns. Today, Galahad was hoping for the latter.

“Fancy seeing you here, oh pure one.” The voice rang out before Galahad had even managed to shut the door to the gardens. His head shot up to find Prince Mordred, bastard born son of the king, sitting on his step-mother’s bench, nestled against her yew tree.

“Do you mind? I came here to get away from that.” Galahad grumbled, making sure the door was latched and locked as he walked towards the bench where Mordred sat. Apparently even the courtesy of having a few moments to privately express his frustration were beyond him.

“I mean, I hardly mind. It’s good for me when you have such a... prudish reputation. It means nobody’s going to expect you to settle down with some nice girl from londinium or some shit like that.” Mordred hummed, flicking something silvery between his fingers. It moved so fast it blurred, clicking and clacking as it whipped in and out of Mordred’s digits. Galahad winced visibly, allowing the words to sting. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford in public.

“Please, just don’t. I’m too tired.” Galahad sighed, stopping next to Mordred’s bench. The dark haired prince sat up and scooted sideways, allowing for space on the bench next to him. He patted the space with his free hand, the other still whirling the blade around nimbly. “Why are you even here?”

“Same as you, I suppose.” Mordred snarked, flipping the knife end over end in his hand before it seemingly disappeared into thin air. Galahad sank into the seat, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to keep from crying. He hadn’t wanted to interact with anyone. He hadn’t even wanted to think about it. He had come for solitude. He had come to escape. 

Suddenly, a hand covered his on the bench, slim and nimble. “I’m sorry, I really am. You don’t deserve it. None of us deserve the expectations that the world puts on our shoulders, Galahad. All we can do is bear them as best we can and count on others to help when they are too heavy to carry alone.”

Galahad looked down to find that Mordred was gazing calmly at him, knife stowed away in a hidden pocket as he put his attention on the knight. Galahad flipped his hand over, lacing his fingers with Mordred’s. “Thanks.”

“I’ve been an ass, Gallie. How can I help?” Mordred hummed, running his thumb across the back of Galahad’s hand.

“Stop talking like your dad. It scares me when you do the big speech thing for me. And then prove the point I know you’re dying to prove. It’ll help.” Galahad grumbled, not above whining just a little bit.

Mordred didn’t need to be asked twice. He dropped Galahad’s hand and quickly pivoted on the ball of his foot, landing in Galahad’s lap. The knight quickly laced his hands around Mordred’s waist, pulling him close as Mordred buried his hands in his blond curls. The prince quickly claimed his mouth, pressing inside with a welcome insistence that made Galahad hold him all the tighter.

Mordred stole the breath from his lips with his kisses, leaving absolutely no vestige of prudishness left to ponder. Galahad responded enthusiastically, allowing Mordred to take his prize.

“Not so pure now, right?” Mordred laughed, not unkindly as Galahad let his head thunk back against the yew trunk. Galahad just shook his head mutely and gathered his partner against himself, encouraging Mordred to press his face into the crook of Galahad’s neck. The prince happily settled there, pressing his lips to his collarbone briefly before snuggling into the embrace.

So much for that solitary meltdown. Option one, while not planned for, was the better choice after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! Kudos and Comments are deeply appreciated. Once again, it is entirely unbeta'd. I wrote this instead of sleeping. I'm @Knight-Of-The-Kitchen on tumblr, come bother me there!


End file.
